


Out of His Head

by abstractconcept



Series: Out of His Head Universe [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Colorado Avalanche, Consent Issues, Discipline, Hockey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Power Imbalance, Spanking, breaking someone to rebuild them, dirtybadwrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After another loss, Dutchy is stuck in his head again, brooding, and it will take more than a pep talk to get him out. Roy’s solution is to break him down and start from scratch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of His Head

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure dirtybadwrong fic I wrote just because I wanted to. After putting all my effort into something plotty, I felt like I deserved a break. Spanking, h/c, hurt/comfort, age difference and power-imbalance, consent issues (seeing how it’s a coach and player and all that), breaking someone to build them up again, masturbation, some kind of D/s-ness—hell, I don’t even know how to list it all. Avalanche, Colorado Avalanche, Hockey RPF, Id-fic, PWP. Basically, Roy disciplines Duchene in the naughty way. If that isn't your thing, skip it! If it is your thing, please read and let me know if you enjoy it! :)

**Out of His Head**

Matt entered the dressing room, his heart constricting. He was going to get traded, he just knew it. It _had_ to be a trade. After the game they’d played the other night, he couldn’t even blame them. It had been a humiliating loss. Called down to the locker room, after hours, for a one-on-one talk with the coach. He knew it had to be bad.

Patrick Roy was standing there, in front of Matt’s locker. The sight of it—the word _Duchene_ so proudly written in the Avs’ style, with his hero standing right next to it—brought a brief, wistful smile to his mouth. He wanted so badly to please Patrick. “Uh, hey. You wanted to see me?”

Patrick looked sternly at him, almost grim. Patrick rarely did that. The coach reserved his fierce temper—and, let’s face it, calculated showmanship—for their opponents. He never turned it on the guys. He knew what it had been like under Sacco. But now his eyes were steely, his face set in stone. Matt shifted from one foot to the other, mouth dry.

“I call you here for a reason,” Patrick said in his clipped and slightly broken accent.

Matt looked at him warily. “Yeah?” He swallowed hard. It had been his dream to play for the Avs—only the Avs—and now it was going to all come crashing down. “Are you trading me?” It came out almost unintelligible, part hoarse croak, part whisper.

Roy knew what he meant anyway. A dimple appeared in his cheek before he regained his usual discipline. “No. Sit down. We work on this, okay?”

With such a wave of relief that he was almost shaking, Matt sat on the bench, looking up at Patrick adoringly. “Thank you. I can do this,” he promised. “It’s just—”

“You make a mistake.” Roy looked down at him, his blue eyes savvy.

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t get over it.”

“No.” Matt dropped his head. None of them were good at that yet, but he felt a special responsibility. He was young, but he was one of the veterans. He had to show them character. So he was failing not only as a player, but as a leader.

“You beat yourself up.” Patrick Roy stood beside him, planting his hands on his hips.

“Yeah.” Matt looked up at him hopefully. “So what do I do?”

“No, we done this before. Pep talks—strategy. I pat you on the back. I don’t think it’s working. Do you?”

Matt swallowed hard. _The doghouse again._ And you had to be a special sort of terrible to be in the doghouse with Roy. Roy loved his players. He was nothing but sunshine and encouragement and fierce, fiery protectiveness. If there was a discipline issue, it was dealt with quickly and forgotten. No one ever had to sit on the bench, hot with shame and frustration, watching the game go by. And Patrick had his favorites, too—and until today Matt was sure he was one of them. He glanced up at the man, biting his lip.

“Don’t worry, we don’t drag it out. But I been looking at ways to change things up and maybe it will help.” Patrick reached out and seized a stick leaning against one of the lockers; it was the first time Matt noticed it, and he looked at it quizzically. Patrick blew out a long breath. “We try the carrot already. Now maybe we do the stick.”

Matt just looked at him, uncomprehending. “Huh?”

“Get up and bend over.”

Matt’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“You beat up yourself. Trouble is, you don’t stop. You keep going even after it’s enough. Someone take that out of your hands, they set limits. After it’s over, it’s over. Get it?”

Blinking, Matt shrugged. It sort of made sense, he guessed; if Patrick took control of the punishment thing Matt put himself through, _he_ could say when it was over—and maybe then it would really _be_ over. But spanking? Is that what he was suggesting? That was kind of crazy. On the other hand, no one had ever accused Patrick Roy of being normal. And on another level . . . okay, yeah, if he was being real honest with himself, then deep down it sounded kind of hot. Not that he would ever admit it, not in a million years.

He looked at Patrick for a long moment. Everyone knew what he did for the team. He had their backs. He had made it fun again, brought the magic back. From that first night when he’d got in Boudreau’s face, they knew him; they knew he hadn’t changed. He was their leader and their champion, full of swagger, full of power. He was a little grey now, but he was still the same legend Matt had worshipped as a boy. He had presence. He was the personification of winning. And in some sick way, it was kind of special. He was pretty sure Patrick hadn’t offered to spank Gabe or Paulie, right? And Matt desperately wanted to be special, to be _the one._

He swallowed several times and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “O—okay. Uh, so how do we do this?”

Patrick’s shoulders relaxed and it was only then Matt realized they’d been tense. “Drop your jeans and bend over,” he said.

Matt stared at him again, before lumbering to his feet, blinking and—he knew—flushed. What the hell was happening? This was crazy. He was crazy. Everything was crazy. He felt like he was moving through water, his limbs sluggish with shock. He was so numb that he couldn’t really process it, but his hands obediently undid his fly and he dropped his pants down to his ankles. He looked at Patrick again—for what, reassurance? He didn’t even know. But when Patrick nodded, he turned and leaned over, resting his hands against the place his jersey would usually be. _Oh God, oh God, this is so fucking crazy,_ he thought, and then the first smack came.

He gasped a little, more out of surprise than pain. It didn’t hurt, really. He just hadn’t believed it would actually happen.

Another smack came, the flat of the blade slapping against his ass. “Count ‘em,” Patrick ordered quite callously.

“Two,” Matt grunted. He gulped. “Three,” he said dutifully at the next. “Four.” They were starting to sting now. The next made him wince. “Five.”

“You gonna do better?” Patrick asked.

 _Smack._ “I—six. Yes.”

“Yeah?”

 _Smack._ “Seven.” Matt made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. Patrick looked like he always did, laser-focus centered on Matt’s ass. He caught Matt looking at him and smiled a little. Jesus. Matt whipped his head back around, face hot. Oh, God, he was _not_ going to get turned on right now. That would be _so_ bad. He gritted his teeth. _Smack._ “Eight,” he croaked. He stared at the back of his hands, tried to concentrate on his chapped knuckles, tried not to think at all.

Then there was a long, long pause.

“You think too much,” Patrick commented.

Matt winced.

“I can see you thinking about it. See the wheels turning.” _Smack._

“Nine,” Matt ground out through clenched teeth.

“Why you do this to yourself?” Patrick questioned. He drew back, and Matt knew the next one wasn’t going to be a gentle thwap like the rest, and it wasn’t; it was like a slapshot to his backside, hard enough rock him forward, to make him go up on his toes for a second.

He gasped hard. Instead of saying ten, Matt blurted, “Because I want to impress you.”

“Yeah?” Another smack, but gentler—still enough to hurt on his already-stinging skin.

“I—want to be good.”

“You should want to be great,” Patrick replied calmly before smacking him again.

Matt closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. He tried to ignore the fact that his prick was starting to respond, that there was something he liked about being bent over in front of a powerful guy like Roy. He felt all jumbled up. It hurt, it really hurt, and even if he was turned on, it was also mortifying to be standing there with his pants puddled around his feet, being spanked by a legendary goaltender. “I do,” he grunted. “I want to be great.”

“Don’t see it,” Patrick said; Matt could hear the shrug in his voice. Another especially hard hit, and Matt grimaced.

“I do,” he repeated.

Patrick hit him again, harder, this time without saying a word.

“I _do,_ ” Matt insisted. He didn’t know what the man _wanted_ from him.

The stick came again, hard enough that he knew he was going to be bruised. The trainers would have questions. This was worse than the doghouse. He was hot with shame and arousal and it felt like it was never going to end. “I do,” he choked. “I do, I do.”

Matt heard the stick whistle through the air, the _crack_ as the stick met his flesh, and this time it broke him. He cried out, softly, and heard himself sob. “I just—want—to make you—happy,” he sputtered. He wasn’t thinking anymore; he couldn’t think. It just hurt, and he was tired, and he was so fucking frustrated and angry. “What the fuck do you _want_ from me?”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t turn. He rested his forehead against the back of his hand, still feeling hot tears drip down his face. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, let alone his coach.

“Come here,” Patrick said, tugging his arm. “Come on.” Matt tried to resist, but Patrick was insistent, and he let himself be turned around and—hugged. He leaned into the large man and clenched his teeth, pressing his knuckles against his face and trying to get himself together.

Patrick sat, guiding him down, and he found himself half in the man’s lap. He’d completely given up on thinking of it as weird or mortifying. He just didn’t have the energy left. He gave himself over to something like hysteria, resting on Patrick’s shoulder and letting his breath come in soft, shaky sobs. Patrick was stroking his hair and rubbing his back and murmuring something incomprehensible in quiet French. “I just want to make you happy,” Matt said again. “I want to make everyone happy. I want to take care of—of the team. And win. And win. I want to win,” he drew back. “And I want—” he stared at Patrick, his mind fuzzy, emotions still hot and raw and very close to the surface. Patrick looked back at him, exuding confidence and pride and humor, just like he always did, and Matt loved him for that, had loved him since he was a little boy. He’d loved all of them—loved his team with all the passion he had in him, had grown up wanting nothing more than to be with them. But he hadn’t felt like _this_ , except—well, there had been times, hadn’t there? At night in the dark at that weird, in-between age, when he’d pictured Super Joe, had imagined him smiling his handsome smile just at Matt, had imagined hoisting the cup and then—well, things had got weird in those dreams sometimes. But they were just dreams. Just dreams, right?

Then Patrick reached up and brushed a thumb over Matt’s cheek and it came away wet. “It’s okay,” Patrick murmured. Matt was so far gone he couldn’t even process the words. They might as well have still been in a foreign language. He leaned forward and kissed the man. Patrick looked surprised, but stroked Matt’s hair. “Okay,” he said, sort of in a tone that said, _This was not part of the plan, but I’ll roll with it._ Matt kissed him again.

All that mattered right now was that Patrick was holding him, and he wasn’t letting go. Matt kissed him again and again, sitting there in his lap like they were two teens on a date in a crowded car. Patrick kissed back, looking more amused than anything. Matt didn’t much care. He just needed this—this whatever it was. Patrick’s arms were warm and strong around him and it made Matt feel safe. Matt kissed him again, and again, each kiss a little longer, a little needier. “I just want you to be happy with me,” he huffed against Patrick’s mouth. “I just—want you to like me.” Another kiss. “Want to be good for you.” He broke away for just a moment. His head was still all cloudy but his body knew what it wanted. He kissed Patrick one more time. “Want you,” he whispered.

“Oh, boy,” Patrick muttered. He obviously knew this was trouble, but he was kissing Matt back anyway. When Matt lunged against him, insistently questing for Patrick’s tongue, Patrick gave in and kissed back, still holding him, still petting him. “Okay,” Patrick said when they broke apart. “I give you what you need.”

And then Patrick started touching him: not just holding him or stroking his hair, but caressing his body. Matt just kept kissing, glorying in Patrick’s tongue playing against his own. Patrick’s cool hand traced his overheated cheek and jaw, trailed down his body. Roy’s large hand splayed against his chest, dragged down his stomach, then ran up the inside of his thigh. Matt couldn’t help but whimper at that, and Patrick chuckled against his lips.

Matt drew back, blinking. Patrick grinned and winked at him. He kissed Matt’s cheek, and then his ear. “You’re all right,” the man huffed, his breath warm against Matt’s earlobe. “You’re all right.” He stroked Matt’s abdomen, his movements sure, like everything the man did. Matt squirmed in pleasure, wriggling in the man’s lap until he was leaning back against Patrick’s chest.

Patrick ran his hand down, cupping Matt’s erection through his underpants. Matt groaned, eyes falling closed. He still felt defenseless and shaky and all strung out, on the verge of another total breakdown. Patrick was kissing his neck, soft little kisses with soothing French words brushing his throat.

“Please,” Matt begged, thrusting up into Patrick’s palm. He felt feverish and unsatisfied, hungry for more friction.

“Okay,” Patrick agreed, gently, against his ear. “I give my boy what he needs.” He was caressing now, tracing the outline of Matt’s prick through his underwear.

Matt groaned, head lolling back. When Patrick reached down into his pants, he felt the skin on his thigh ripple, breaking out in shivery goosebumps. He reached down and covered Patrick’s hand with his own. Unthinking, he urged him on, moving his hand faster. Matt humped his hand, feeling wild, feeling frenzied, his blood too hot and too loud in his ears, his cock rigid, his whole body begging for more.

Patrick laughed softly. “This is what we need,” he said. “You just gotta take control.”

The words didn’t make sense; nothing made sense and it didn’t matter. He kissed the side of Patrick’s mouth. “Just say you’re happy with me,” he whispered.

There was no harshness left; the ice in his coach’s blue eyes melted away into kindness. “I’m happy,” Patrick murmured, still stroking his prick. “I like you.” He kissed and nuzzled Matt’s neck. “’Course I’m happy with you. Mon coeur. You’re my favorite,” he soothed. “My pet.”

Matt sighed, some tight catch in his chest releasing. He grabbed Patrick’s chin and turned his face, ignoring the way those blue eyes smiled, and he kissed the man hard. “More,” he grunted.

Patrick’s hand sped up, tugging, twisting just a little at the end of each stroke. Matt had never ached like this before. He rocked, thrusting into Patrick’s hand. Patrick was kissing his open mouth, pausing only to murmur words of encouragement. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s my boy. My good boy.” Every little word of encouragement made the hot lust build in Matt’s belly. He was getting desperate, writhing in Roy’s arms. Patrick seemed pleased with this, pleased at the response he was evoking, which only made Matt feel more eager, excited to please, longing to come. Patrick kissed him. “Got to give my boy what he wants.”

It was too much; the words spilled him over the edge, his balls tightening. Matt cried out as he pumped a spurt of creamy come over Patrick’s hand, a drop or two spilling onto his bare thighs.

Patrick kept milking him, French words in his ear, mixed with little words of praise, “Good boy,” Patrick said. “ _Mon Trésor._ Good boy.” Good boy was all Matt wanted; all he’d ever wanted. He moaned softly as Patrick’s hand slowed. Matt slumped, boneless, enjoying the soft words against his cheek. “ _Mon ange_.”

They stayed that way a little while, Matt flushed and spent and completely undone, Patrick holding him and muttering reassuring nonsense. Finally the man said, “Okay, my leg is asleep.”

Matt had to laugh. He weakly got up and moved aside, pulling his underwear back up. “Sorry.”

“It’s good.” Patrick was watching him keenly. “Better, now?” he asked. He reached out and took Matt’s face, pulling him forward until their foreheads rested against each other. “Not overthinking?”

“Not thinking at all,” Matt replied with a dreamy smile. “Don’t have to.”

“Good.” Patrick pulled back and kissed his forehead. “Next time you get stuck in your head, I get you out. Deal?”

Matt laughed tiredly. “Sure. You can drive me out of my mind all you like.”

Patrick laughed at that as well. “I got to take care of you,” he explained. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. To his surprise, he really did feel a lot better. He’d had his catharsis, he’d been reassured, and now he wanted, more than ever, to please his coach, and was ready to show him everything he had—in more ways than one. The idea of doing this again was appealing. Maybe they could try different things, even. Maybe Patrick would go down on him. Maybe Patrick would let him go down on him.

“Good boy,” Patrick said, getting up. He leaned over again to kiss Matt, and Matt kissed back eagerly.

“How come you did it this way?” Matt asked curiously as he pulled his jeans back up. “I mean . . . usually you—you know. You just encourage us. You _spoil_ us.”

Patrick snorted. “Eh, I just did spoil you,” he retorted. “You want more than that, I don’t know what to tell you.” He grinned. “No, I know. Sometime, you just need something . . . different. Different player—different needs. What I say to Landy won’t work on you.”

Matt smiled ruefully, thinking about the recent news articles about him. “Because I’m a self-torturing headcase, the ‘Lord Byron’ of hockey?”

Patrick put a hand on his shoulder. “Because you’re special,” he replied. “Now you go and get some sleep. See you at the morning skate.”

Matt grinned and nodded. He made sure he had his jacket as they walked outside together. He had a feeling he was going to sleep like a log. They walked out to the parking lot together, the air clear but crisp, the lights of Denver surrounding them. Matt put his hands in his pockets, proof against the chill, and turned to look at Patrick one last time. “So does this mean I’m Coach’s pet?” he asked with a crooked smile.

Patrick smiled back. “Well, I sure don’t do that with anyone else,” he promised.

It was all Matt wanted to hear. He headed back to his truck. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

“Sweet dreams, Dutchy,” Patrick called after him, making him laugh. “And Dutchy?” he added. Matt turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “We gonna win tomorrow,” Patrick informed him. He winked that devilish, arrogant wink, brimming with confidence not just in himself, but in Matt—in his boys.

“Yeah,” Matt said. He resumed walking, this time with an added swagger in his step. “Yeah,” Matt promised, smiling broadly. “We’re gonna _win_.”


End file.
